Gray Areas
by Sylvita
Summary: Tangled tales and broken threads weave together to create the tapestries of new and unexpected saviors. The legacy of Martin is coming to a close and Redwall has been overcome. Sameth Martinson must look to an unlikely ally to redeem his fallen heros.
1. Chapter 1

Teleo Creekrun sagged back against the trunk of a tall ash, peering up at his father, Alder. The giant mouse raised a critical eyebrow, twitching his unusual tufted tail.

"Done so soon?" Alder Creekrun twirled his sword idly. Teleo nodded, panting too hard to speak. "You wish you were finished. Get up and get your sword. You will learn this maneuver if it kills you."

Teleo stooped wearily and picked up his sword as though it were a dead thing. He faced his father once more. Alder flicked his steel in a lazy figure eight, speaking as he did.

"Teleo, you are a Creekrun male," (Here Teleo flashed him a look that clearly said Tell me something I didn't know.) Alder continued, unperturbed. "We are weapon-masters. In every generation there has been one male, and one alone, who excels in arms. My father trained me in this art; his father trained him; and his father's father trained _him_. Now I am _attempting_ to train you, though you resist my every effort." His blade began picking up speed for emphasis. "Do you not feel any shame at being the first Creekrun to have failed at the sword?"

"Yea, I have! Doesn't it occur to you that I've tried? I've performed every exercise you've given me! I've worked until I can't move! I—"

"Then try harder!" Alder swept his sword towards Teleo. The younger mouse, caught by surprise, swung his blade up to block the blow, but he was carried off his feet by the force. Alder looked on as he straightened up, wincing. The huge mouse was reminded of a time when he, too, had been swept off his paws by his father's blade. He had been Teleo's age, and even worse at weapons than he was. It had always been tradition for the father to school the son. It was passed down through their generations in the same way that their staggering height and strange tufted tails had been passed down. Alder knew he was being harsh on Teleo, but this was the way he himself had been trained.

Teleo was reaching for his sword when he heard a shout.

"Teleo! Tey, try slicing down!" His younger sister, Romula Creekrun, was waving furiously. He turned to her, annoyed. "Listen, Romula, if you think you can do better, come try!" Venting his anger, he drove his blade point first into the loam. Romula glanced at her mother Famma for permission, and then raced over to them, beaming. Alder said nothing. He didn't need to. His expression clearly revealed his irritation. Romula completely ignored this as she tugged the sword eagerly out of the clinging soil. She hefted it up, feeling the weight, testing. Flicking his ears back, Teleo snickered; the sword was over half Romula's height. His laugh ended abruptly as the sword tip snipped off the points of his left whiskers. Alder's eyes widened. Romula danced lightly back, eyes glinting mischievously. Her father flicked his blade lightly towards her, trying, teasing. The sturdy mousemaid sent it flying. Trying again, he used the same maneuver he had been practicing with Teleo. Again, the sword flew from his paws. They continued, attacking and defending, each attempt ending invariably with Alder being forced to retrieve his blade. When they ground to a halt, he stared at Romula.

"In the name of fang and fur, maid, who taught you?"

Romula fiddled with her sword, not meeting her father's eyes. "I dunno. I mean, I just know. I mean…um…" she faltered for words. Finally she met his gaze squarely. "The blade just fits my paws, is all. It tells me how it needs to be used."

The taller mouse had no response to this. He was completely stunned. His daughter, his youngest child, who, to his knowledge, had never touched steel before, had just beaten him thoroughly and with more grace than he had ever possessed. He bowed his head in thought and walked quietly into their cottage. Teleo followed him, glancing at Romula with a mixture of envy and awe. Famma flashed her daughter a quick understanding look and followed the two indoors to begin fixing their supper. Romula watched them quietly. She sensed that something had been broken, but she didn't know what. Her sword dangled in her hand, point tracing limp patterns in the dust. The young mousemaid had never felt so very alone.

Dura Vadi crept quietly over to her sleeping mate. She too had drifted off, but there was no way on her life that she would admit it to Teb Doleann. Sneering, she kicked the other weasel into wakefulness. Teb came abruptly conscious with a stifled yelp, glaring at Dura. She squatted down next to him.

"'s time." Teb glared at her; it was his right to decide when it was time to strike. After all, it was he who had been given the job; it was he who Ardis had called to her tower. He could remember it vividly…

_He was in the middle of dining as one of Queen Ardis's burly guards summoned him over. The rat guard had never said a word, simply beckoned him to follow. Teb had followed warily as they climbed higher, feet silent on the old red stone staircases. Only when they reached the door to Ardis's chambers had he begun to fear. The queen was merciless to those who displeased her and she never seemed to run out of ingenious (and gruesome) ways to kill them. The guard knocked thrice on the heavy oak door, and they heard the Queen's strong voice calling them in. The guard merely shoved Teb through the door and left._

_As the guard propelled him in, Teb was instantly struck by the richness of the chambers. Weighty tapestries hung from the sandstone walls and opulent runners softened the floors. Strangely, though, it was not a luxurious hanging or plush carpet that held the center of the room. Hanging in the middle of the far wall, surrounded by a framework of gold, was a simple hand-needled embroidery. It had been repaired many times, and the colors were slightly faded. It depicted an armored mouse bearing a great sword, with rats, weasels, ferrets, stoats, even a wildcat fleeing from him. The mouse's expression was stern and disapproving, and Teb felt uneasy looking at it. He was jolted from his reverie when a small door on the right wall opened and Ardis glided through. She gestured for the frightened weasel to be seated and settled opposite him, light silken robes swirling around her. He bowed frantically while fumbling for a cushion._

_"So, you are an assassin, are you not?" She didn't sound upset, merely curious. Slightly emboldened, he replied, "Yes, Your Magnificence."_

_"Superb," she purred, curling her snow-white tail around her snugly. "I have need of your services. My Seers have recently had a most disturbing vision of a mouse that will kill me. You can understand why this is of some concern to myself." Ardis paused, looking straight at Teb's face. "I want you to kill this mouse."_

_Teb was flustered. "I can't…I mean I can but…which mouse? There're a lot of 'em." _

_"What do you take me for! This mouse lives on the banks of the River Moss, this my soothsayers have seen. What is more, it has a tufted tail. You cannot miss it. Now begone, and do not let me hear news of failure, or I will kill _you_. Leave!" Ardis's ears flattened against her skull and Teb ran._

Now here he was, finally preparing to strike after weeks of slogging through Mossflower, being eaten alive by mosquitoes and their bloodthirsty kin, getting lost, getting found, and getting exasperated. He rose abruptly, nearly knocking over Dura. _Yes,_ he thought, _it's time._ Dura leapt to her feet, sliding her wicked assassin's knife from her belt. He strapped on his throwing knives and signaled to Dura. Together, the two weasels crept silently towards the sunlit, innocent glade.

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**OOkay. Kinda pitiful, please review.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Right-o. Thanks for all the reviews. I'm sorry this took so long to upload, but school started and I barely have time to breathe, much less write. Actually, I finished this on a sick day .**

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The pair crept quietly into the sunlit glade, noses twitching to pick up the scent of their prey. The clearing was completely empty, the family of mice retreating to the cottage to eat. Teb circled around the side of the building and peered surreptitiously in through the window. The three mice had their backs to him and the open door, all totally unaware of the assassins. Creeping back around to Dura he signaled her with his tail and the pair moved stealthily to the door.

Alder just had time to feel the fur rise on the back of his neck in a sixth sense before Teb's neatly thrown blade entered the base of his skull. Famma whirled around and Teleo groped vainly for a weapon before they too were killed by Dura's flying daggers. All the time there had not been a noise uttered.

Cautiously, the weasels slipped into the house to admire their handiwork. Teb was leaning down to retrieve his knife blade when Dura said, "Ardis mightn't believe us if we go back wi' nouthin' t'show. That we killed 'em, I mean." Teb nodded slowly as he thought, then carefully sawed off Alder's head and tufted tail. Dripping blood, he held up his grisly trophies. "This'll convince 'er." Satisfied, Dura nodded and the two methodically stripped the bodies of weapons and valuables.

As silently as they had come, the two departed, leaving the dell tainted with blood.

_

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__Several days later_

A gentle evening breeze was playing through the forest when the pair decided to make camp for the night. Dura got the fire crackling merrily and was preparing to roast a small songbird they had captured when she froze. "Hear that?"

Teb listened carefully, the sounds of the darkness rushing in around him. He could hear the crack and whisper of the small fire, the murmuring of the trees in the breeze. Here an owl called mournfully, another replied in the distance, warning the other away. Crickets and katydids each tried to drown the other out with their songs. Faintly, faintly Teb could hear a sound that didn't belong in the night-time chorus. "Somethin's movin' in," he whispered. Dura nodded, drawing her dagger. "You stay 'ere t'distract 'em, an' I'll jest nip around an' get 'em." She rose silently and disappeared into the shadows. Teb stayed where he was, hearing the steps grow closer. They paused for a moment and there was an abrupt rustle in the bushes. The steps resumed.

Teb's neck hair's rose uncomfortably. Something was not going right here. This thought was most definitely confirmed as Dura was flung headlong into the clearing, skidding along the earth to flop at his feet. He reached down and recoiled. Dura was stone dead. He snapped upright, eyes wide, assassin's instincts kicking in. His keen sixth sense tingled and he flung himself at the ground just as one of Dura's knives whistled past his ears. Teb rolled and leapt upright in a single fluid movement, bringing himself face to face with his attacker.

He was looking at either a very rangy mouse or a very short rat. She was lean and unkempt-looking, her fur matted into a dusty fawn-coloured pelt. And her tail, her tail was tufted.

"Why?" The question took Teb by surprise. "Why did y'kill them?" she snarled. Teb hesitated, unsure of how to respond. "Answer wisely an' I might save your life."

"It…it was Ardis!" he stammered. "She said…said she'd kill me…if…I didn' do it…" He whimpered and moaned, trying for pity, trying for more time…trying to hide his movements.

He slyly slid for Alder's stolen sword and screamed as another of Dura's daggers pierced his paw. He looked up and met his attacker's eyes…and met nothing in those cold grey pools save loathing. "I'm not moved," she said quietly and ran him through with the third and final blade.

Romula Creekrun reached down dispassionately and removed Alder's sword from Teb's lifeless grip. Hefting it in one hand, she seized the rough sack containing the head and tail of her father in the other and set silently off into the woods.

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The moon rose slowly over the crown of the woodlands, still glowing orange, not yet silvery-blue. It kissed the leaves, smiling sadly down between the branches of the still forest at a lone form kneeling between the trees.

Romula bowed her head quietly over the shallow grave which held the remains of her family. She'd marked the grave with a flat stone, and crudely scratched the initials of her kin into the rock. Now she took up her father's sword and studied it. With deliberation, she placed the point at the foot of the grave and prepared to drive it into the ground. Without really thinking about it, she leaned forward so that her head was resting against the edge. The blade cut deeply into her fur and flesh and blood spurted out onto the steel. Quietly, she withdrew and drove the sword into the ground so that only the hilt remained visible. Flicking her blood out of her eyes, she scratched two more letters onto the tombstone: R.C.

Nameless, she rose and left the glade. Romula Creekrun was dead.

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**Not nearly as long as the first chapter, but a little more morbid and harsh. So...review! And tell me what your fave chapter is so far!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Forgive me any mistakes I made while typing this. As I write, there is a 20 pound cat attempting to rub his head on my hands. I can't seem to get rid of him.**

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_Seasons later..._

Early morning light has the miraculous ability to make life seem soft and pure and new and carefree. It softens the edges of the world and makes the dew drops glimmer in the light like precious things. The trees of Mossflower, just as the sun is rising, seem to sing in the soft breeze, their leaves trembling on the twigs like emeralds on thin bronze wire. Deep in the heart of the woods the new light comes dripping down through branches. Some of the pearly light will perch on the limbs, inviting butterflies and birds to bask. Some of the sun, however, will continue into the wild wood, dappling the glades, creating marvelous patterns of shadow and light.

An industrious spider, gilded with light, stretched its many legs in the sun and leaped into the air, placing with infinite care the final strand on its silver web. It surveyed its handiwork. If spiders could look smug, this one would.

There was a noise near by that sounded like a large animal lurching around. This was followed by a rumbling clatter, and a faint whistling noise as a large gob of saliva whizzed straight through the silver-wire web. If spiders could look horrified, this one would.

Gavin Martinson wiped his paw across his mouth and yawned, squinting at the sunlight. He turned and went back into his room inside a large oak tree, carefully made his bed, went back to the door, and spat again. By his foot a very angry spider scuttled past to hide in his bedclothes. Gavin was in for a surprise tonight.

"Nice," said a rather sleepy voice emanating from a pile of blankets. "Jus' what I wanted t' wake up to." Gavin looked round, somewhat startled.

"I didn't know you were awake," he said. The pile of blankets lurched and a tousled head emerged, blinking sleepily. Sameth Martinson stretched, yawning, and ran a paw over his fur, making it stick up even worse than before.

"Surprise," he said.

Gavin stared outside for a few moments, then shrugged and turned back inside. He picked up his blankets and folded them, then tossed them down on his pallet. Sameth wriggled out from under his own blankets and folded them up, though rather more neatly than Gavin. He pulled on a clean tunic and breeches and scrubbed at his fur in a futile attempt to make it lie flat. Gavin eyed his brother thoughtfully and sighed.

"What?" asked Sameth, looking round and catching him.

"You," said Gavin disparagingly. "You're honestly utterly hopeless."

"Thanks a bushel, Gav," Sameth replied mockingly. "What did I do to deserve that uplifting little remark?"

"It's just you," was the answer. Gavin tugged his sandals on, put his eye to a small hole in the door, and nodded, apparently satisfied. He pulled a sturdy wooden pin out of a small hole in the flap of wood and swung the whole thing outwards.

Their room was situated in the trunk of a large oak tree. Years ago, the tree had been cleft by lightning along its eastern side, but had continued living. Some creature, probably a squirrel, had hollowed out the burnt bits and left the living core. The result was similar to a large wooden cave in the tree. The brothers had furnished it with two pallets for sleeping and a chest for clothes. Functioning as a door was a large slab of bark. It went snugly over the niche in the tree, completely hiding the room inside. Two discreet wooden pins held the door in place and tiny holes drilled through it ensured that the room's inhabitants didn't suffocate. Gavin turned on his way out and hefted the bark door back into place. When the pins were fastened, one would never know the door, or room within, existed. They headed off into the woods.

The two mice were brothers of the same litter, born only minutes apart. Both were large, stocky creatures, well-muscled with sleek golden-brown coats and white bellies. Gavin was the bigger and older of the two and kept himself perpetually impeccably neat. Sameth was a little smaller, his fur never quite as smartly combed as Gavin's fur was, and he lacked his brother's suave charm. Their father was Darver Martinson, bearer of the sword of Martin. Darver was as big as either of them, with heavy muscles that were running slightly to fat. He was the most respected creature in the band, apart from Loek Riverkin, the hedgehog leader of the group of woodlanders, and Gavin strove to fill his father's impressive footsteps—and expectations.

The brothers had appeared to be wandering aimlessly through the woods, but now they came to an abrupt halt in a small clearing. Gavin glanced around at the surrounding landscape, then bent down to a small rock. Speaking apparently to the stone, he muttered, "Gavin and Sameth Martinson…open in the name of Germaine, first abbess."

The stone sat perfectly still for a moment, then quite suddenly replied, "'lo, lads, come on down. Ritta's got brekkers on the range."

Gavin nodded, satisfied, then bent down and dug his claws into the sod roughly a paw's length away from the stone. He heaved, and a circular patch of grass lifted neatly out of the forest floor, revealing a rough ladder leading down into darkness. He clambered down and Sameth followed. He paused for a moment to pull the sod circle back down. From below, one could see that the living dirt and roots were fastened to a hinged wooden disc, which formed a snug lid for the hole. After tugging it down tight, Sameth climbed down the ladder after his brother. The pair reached the bottom of the hole, which was about four times as tall as they were, and followed a sloping dirt trail further down. After a few feet, they were halted by a heavy reinforced oaken door. There was no knob. Sameth knocked and a small metal grill slid back at head height, revealing a squinting pair of dark brown eyes. There was a click and a creak, and the door swung outward toward Gavin and Sameth. On the other side stood a cheerful looking mouse who seemed rather at odds with the sturdy spear he held in one paw. Beside his head was a round metal pipe protruding from the cave roof. Sameth knew that this pipe led up to an opening just beside the rock Gavin had spoken to earlier, allowing the sentry to communicate with those who knew both the location of the stone and the current password. The mouse tipped his spear to the pair as they waved and walked past.

"Mornin' lads. Better go get some grub afore your ole dad eats it all," he said, grinning.

"I'll be sure to do that, Cherry," replied Gavin, "I'll get something even if I gotta beat him off with a stick."

Cherry chuckled and waved the two through.

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Inside, the tunnel the two were following grew steadily larger until it opened into a vast cavern, which was filled with wooden benches, tables, tankards, platters, hungry creatures, and the smell of frying pancakes. The two mice joined the end of a long line of various creatures, greeted by hedgehogs, otters, voles and squirrels.

"Mornin', lads," rumbled a thunderous voice behind them. The pair spun around to peer up into the broad striped face of a badger.

"Hey Dwirn! It's a good thing we got here before you did, or you would've left us nothing to eat," said Gavin cheerfully. Dwirn chuckled and cuffed the mouse on the head, leaving him slightly dazed. The three wound their way up the line, getting their breakfasts from a buffet guarded by a fierce-eyed elderly gray squirrel. Nodding to the cook Ritta, they headed back into the crowd to take their seats.

Sam dug into his pancakes and honey, letting the hum of morning gossip wash over him. Gavin was talking animatedly on his right to a pretty mousemaid named Clover. Dwirn had immersed himself in conversation about the structural elements of their tunnel systems and improvements that could be made. Drowsing, listening to the voices that were as once as clear as bells and yet as indecipherable as the drone of bees, Sam let his own thoughts wander.

"Ahrrremph! Attenshun, if y'will!" A stocky hedgehog had just mounted the podium at the front of the cavern and was drumming furiously for attention. When the volume in the room had lowered considerably, he continued. "Jus' had a few annoncerments t'make. Firs', patrols are getting' more reg'lar, so no one is to go out alone. Stay in pairs, y'hear? Secon', we got a couple new reffigees from the south. Make 'em welcome.

"That's 'bout all I got t'say, so you lot enjoy yer brekkist and clean up yer mess." The muscular hedgehog clambered down from the podium and headed for the food line.

"The patrols are getting more regular? Do you think Ardis suspects something?" asked Sam nervously. Their hedgehog leader, Loek Riverkin, was not unduly cautious and always had a good reason for his rules. Dwirn shrugged.

"It's possible," he replied in his deep, slow voice. "She does this every now and then, though, to keep the troops on their toes."

Sameth was about to say something else when there was a sudden horn blast. The dining hall fell deathly silent, every creature listening intently. Gavin grabbed his brother's paw and pulled him to the sentries' tunnel. Cocking their ears, the two could hear movement above ground—a regular marching of paws.

Turning to Gavin, Sam mouthed _Soldiers?_ Gavin nodded. There were voices now, too.

"I swear I heard somethin'!"

"You're daft, is what it is."

"No, really! I keep thinkin' I can hear voices here…and it smells like food! Every time I come here!"

"Mebbe it's haunted. These woods are creepy."

"Yeah…let's get back to the castle. I hate patrols."

"Good idea. Double time, troops!"

The sound of footsteps increased, the ceiling shaking briefly with the force of feet. As Gavin and Sam listened, the beats grew gradually softer, until they disappeared entirely.

"They're gone," said Gavin. Cherry, the sentry, nodded and placed his lips to the horn again, sounding the "all clear" blast. Returning to the dining hall, the brothers listened to the sound slowly building up again as the woodlanders resumed their lives.


	4. Chapter 4

With a grunt, Redivan threw down the twisted piece of metal he'd been substituting for a shovel and surveyed his handiwork. Then he scooped the dirt loosely back into the hole and disappeared into the shadows.

Rularur was curled into a ball, tail over his nose, snoring softly. He was roughly shaken awake by a lanky red squirrel. Redivan Rumfur glared at the otter out of his one good eye.

"Come on, we need to move!" The otter unfurled himself gingerly, broken ribs from the previous night's beating sending lances of pain through his torso. He gazed blearily up at squirrel, trying to focus. The squirrel grabbed Rularur's face, looking him square in the eye. "Lissen, all right? We're getting out of here tonight. The hole's done, we can get out! I'm going to get the others, you head to the east wall now, all right? Are you listening?"

The otter nodded dumbly and staggered to his feet. Holding his sides, he slunk out of the door and around the side of the ramshackle shed. Redivan watched him go, then ran through the plan again mentally. He'd spent the last week digging a tunnel under the walls of the slave compound. He wished he could have had moles to help, but any that could dig were kept in a specially made stone compound, and any that couldn't had had their claws blunted down. Now he was going to distract the sentries, while the slaves—any that could be taken—were slipping out the back. Nodding to himself, he left the shed and made his way silently to the next slave dwelling, rousting the slaves and instructing them to make their way to the hole.

The husky male squirrel peered up at the ramparts, scanning for guards. There…no, there was one. Cupping his paws around his mouth, he shouted, "Guard!" The weasel sentry peered down at him, moonlight glinting off his helmet. Redivan continued. "I need to speak with you!" The narrow face watched him for a moment more, then nodded and disappeared. A few moments more and a ladder slid down over the edge and the weasel swiftly descended. The ladders were a safety measure—they were the only way to reach the ramparts, which protected the guards should the slaves try to rebel. In addition, the only way the small but heavy main door could be opened was through a mechanism on the ramparts.

"What is it?" asked the guard. Redivan beckoned him closer, then whispered, "The slaves are attempting a breakout on the west wall tonight." The guard looked at him, then asked, "Why are you telling me this?"

"Ah, sir, it's a clumsy plan and I tried to warn 'em against it, but they wouldn't listen. I knew if I said nothing I'd be flogged with the rest."

"Saving your own hide, eh?" said the sentry. "Well, thank you muchly. You'll get a reward out of this night." He clambered back up the ladder, withdrawing it behind him, and disappeared towards the west wall.

Redivan waited until he was out of sight, then dashed back to the eastern side. The ragged group of slaves was waiting there for him, tucked away in the shadows. There weren't as many as he had hoped; some, like the moles, couldn't be freed. Others refused to come out of fear. He motioned for them to be quiet, listening. They stayed that way for more than a few minutes, until the compound alarm sounded. Then he turned to the concealed hole and began digging furiously.

"Here's the way out, come help me dig. The sentries are occupied with the west wall, that's where they think the breakout is occurring."

He was most of the way into the hole, Rularur digging furiously by his side, when he heard the commotion behind him. Before he could turn around, he was seized by his furry tail and jerked unceremoniously from the tunnel. Falling on the hard earth, he tried to leap to his feet but was knocked over again.

"West wall, huh? Just how stupid do you think we are?" sneered the ferret standing over him, sword tip at his throat. From the corner of his good eye, he saw a stoat pummel Rularur in the stomach, forcing the otter to his knees. The rest of the slaves were being herded away by the remaining guards.

"For your efforts tonight, slave, your friends here will get the flogging of their lives," said the ferret. "As for you two, well…I think you'll get the flogging of the end of your life. Right where everyone can watch. Mebbe it'll drill a lesson into your stupid slave skulls." Hauling Redivan to his feet, the ferret marched him to the rampart ladder, forcing him upwards. He could hear the same being done to Rularur below. Anger boiled in him, starting in his gut, working its way up till he was seeing through a red haze. He'd be damned if they were going to kill him as an example. At the top of the ladder, the ferret held him at sword point until Rularur dragged himself painfully over the edge. "We'll keep you two lads nice and tight over here. Garvet, bring ropes," ordered the ferret. He and his stoat companion forced the two over to the parapet, preparing to bind them till morning.

Redivan gazed out at the treetops under the rising moon. He turned slightly to Rularur, who gave him a battered smile. Making up his mind suddenly, he whirled around and lunged at the ferret, who jumped backwards, startled. The stoat hesitated a moment before raising his sword, but a moment was all that was needed. Grabbing Rularur's rough paw in his own, Redivan took two steps to the edge and vaulted the parapet.

A few moments later, there was a slight thump.

The ferret and stoat raced to the edge, peering into the darkness. "Well, shit," said the stoat. "Now what?"


	5. Chapter 5

Sam sighed, blowing soap suds off of his whiskers. His brother had disappeared some time ago, leaving Sam to be coerced into washing dishes. He glared at the grime-encrusted plate in his grip for a moment, then resumed his attack, soap bubbles flying. The task was somewhat daunting, as they fed around a hundred woodlanders daily, but as he worked he found that there was peace in the effort. No one talked to him while he scrubbed, leaving him to think his own thoughts in the silence.

Rinsing off the plate in a bucket of warm water and reaching for another, his mind turned to his absentee brother. He worried about Gavin quite a bit. Despite being the younger of the two mice, Sameth often felt that he was responsible for Gavin. The young mouse was headstrong and rebellious, desiring adventure above all else. Sam preferred to stay quietly at home, reading about the once proud Redwall Abbey or tales of Martin the Warrior. His sole aspiration was to be a Recorder, to write down the adventures of others, to live vicariously. Gavin, meanwhile, was determined to become the next bearer of the Sword of Martin, and as such was never satisfied to sit quietly. He was always struggling to prove himself to his father, Darver. Sameth had long ago given up on his father's approval, knowing the stern warrior mouse would not be pleased with a scholar son.

So there they were, then. Sameth, always quiet, the one creatures came to when they needed a level head, the one who actually enjoyed talking to oldtimers who would ramble endlessly about the old days. Sameth, who could never be neat enough, strong enough, brave enough, bold enough, and yet was perfectly content with his lot in life. He was coming a long way towards his goal and had even begun transcribing some of the old stories and tales of Redwall in his flowing script.

And then there was Gavin. Gavin the restless, weary of living a hidden, cautious life. Gavin, the charmer, the ladies' mouse, who could win any heart with his suave ways and clever words—any heart except his father's. Gavin, who couldn't be trusted to complete any simple domestic task, but who could be called on in a heartbeat to scout out patrols or join a reconnaissance party.

Sameth sighed thoughtfully, shaking his head. His brother would have been a true Redwall warrior. He paused a moment, reflecting. His brother could have been a warrior, and he could have been a true scholar. But neither of them would get that chance now…thanks to Ardis.

Her name was a whisper through the woodlanders. If you should ever want to see anger flare or hackles rise, all you had to do was bring up the subject. She had, through trickery and treachery, taken over the abbey Redwall generations ago. Now, the queen and her soldiers inhabited the building, changing the name to Redfort and increasing its borders, building a walled slave compound and expanding both upwards and down. Her troops patrolled the forests, searching for creatures who could be taken as slaves, meaning that the woodlanders, descendants of the original escaped abbeydwellers, were forced to live in secrecy.

Sameth had no idea what the queen looked like, or even what manner of beast she was. He imagined that she was a wildcat, ancient and loathsome. He knew that she had to be old, since she began the takeover generations ago. She ruled with a tight fist, and tales of her brutality leaked out to the countryside with the—

"REFUGEES!" Sam's thoughts were cut short by a sudden outburst. Dropping a plate back into the tub, he raced out of the kitchens, skidding into the main hall. Two squirrels were speaking hurriedly to a growing crowd.

"We saw them while we were on patrol!"

"They jumped from the slave compound!"

"They're hurt bad but they're still alive!"l

Excited chatter broke out from the onlookers as they turned to one another, wondering. Sam wound his way through the expanding throng, trying to figure out what was going on. He jumped as someone grabbed his elbow and he turned to see his brother.

"Silence!" bellowed a voice and the two mice looked to find Dwirn shouldering his way through the crowd, trailed by Loek. "If we are to help these creatures, it's not going to happen with idle chatter!"

Loek pushed his way forward. "Bramble, Firkin, yew two go, they'll need medikle attenshun. Henta, Gavin, Ah want yeh t'go fer proteckshun. Foller Lark here to see where they fell. Get movin'!"

Lark, one of the two squirrels, leapt off, followed closely by the other four. Sameth watched them go, wishing briefly that he could join them. Then he turned and joined the other beasts in preparing a place for the refugees when they arrived.

* * *

Gavin scouted the shrubbery intently, searching for any signs of movement that might indicate the presence of Ardis's soldiers. Lark darted through the trees ahead while the two healers tailed him closely. The otter Henta brought up the rear, oaken javelin at ready.

The whole of Mossflower seemed still and anxious, as though holding its breath. There was a heaviness in the air that made Gavin's sixth sense prickle uneasily, lowering his awareness of his surroundings and making him jumpy. His nostrils flared, scenting the air. Henta moved up beside him, a lithe shadow in the dim light, the sun obscured by clouds. He felt slightly reassured by the big otter's presence, though he knew that even with him and Lark they were little match for a full patrol of soldiers.

Ahead, Lark froze, her tail flickering urgently. "There they are!" she whispered. Gavin held back Bramble and Firkin till he was sure the area was clear. Then he released the two, allowing them to race to the pair of still forms on the forest floor. Drawing nearer, he could see that both creatures were male, one a squirrel, the other an otter. Neither moved, save for a faint rise and fall of their chests. The otter was in visibly worse condition than the squirrel, with his right forelimb bent at an unnatural angle and a thin trickle of blood seeping from between his lips. The young mouse's stomach gave an unpleasant lurch.

Gavin motioned to Henta, and the two fashioned a rough stretcher from the otter's cloak and a few branches. Bringing it to the injured, they waited until the healers finished doing all they could before gently shifting the pair and beginning the trek back to their hiding place.


End file.
